My father died,
he hadn’t planned to,
after an afternoon
tidying the raspberry canes,
with me.
I’d asked.
He’d said, that,
When you’re dead,
he thought,
You leave what you were
in offspring
as these raspberries do;
I’m glad he can’t hear today’s news.
(In response to news that, post Brexit, Britain is farming farming out.)
Cherry Coombe 